


cross my heart

by lettertotheworld



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Apocalypse, American Horror Story: Coven
Genre: Established Relationship, F/F, Fluff, Las Vegas Wedding, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-10-19 05:38:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17595485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lettertotheworld/pseuds/lettertotheworld
Summary: Misty finally carries two loaded, porcelain plates over to the island bar, sets them down and slowly slides one over to Cordelia.“Here are your pancakes,” Misty says as Cordelia picks up her fork, and then just as casually, “will you marry me?”





	cross my heart

**Author's Note:**

> one shot follow up to dig your grave but can mostly stand on its own. y'all i drafted so many different versions of this in full before i got it right rip.
> 
> there is a reference to carrie fisher in here. there is also a reference to sicko mode somewhere. will they eat pancakes in every fic? yes! next question!

_9 P.M._

 

“This Supreme throne is super comfy,” Madison says over the phone, and Cordelia can hear the flick of a zippo in her ear, can hear the exhale in Madison’s voice. She hopes that Madison is not lounging in her office, kicked back with her feet on Cordelia’s desk, permeating the air with the rancid odor of cigarette smoke, but she also knows that’s probably exactly what she is doing. “I should just overthrow your ass.”

 

“You’re welcome to try,” Cordelia tells her conversationally. And Madison _is_ welcome to try; she is welcome to try and fail. In regard to Madison’s dark humor, Cordelia has grown indifferent. It’s how Madison expresses herself, how she deals with all three of her emotions. “How are the girls?”

 

She hears Madison sigh loudly, communicating her impatience even a thousand miles away and by phone. Cordelia thinks this is a perfectly valid question, seeing as how she’s been away for an entire day, and Madison has not bothered to check in even once. Cordelia is allowed to fret; she has never been away from the coven for this long, excluding times of crises. This isn’t a crisis, though. This is a conference in Las Vegas, far away from New Orleans, and she is allowed to request information about the coven’s well-being from Madison, because Madison has volunteered for the position of stand-in Supreme. Cordelia doesn’t think it will kill her to report back to her on occasion.

 

“Great,” Madison says dryly, and Cordelia prepares herself for another onslaught, “I’ve been letting them do tons of coke and have marathon orgies.”

 

Cordelia pinches the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger, thinks she probably should have known better than to even ask. Than to even call. Madison is the kind of person who follows the “no news is good news” rule. She is also insubordinate at best and absolutely harrowing at worst.

 

“Madison.”

 

“They’re fine.” Cordelia can almost hear Madison rolling her eyes. “Jesus, why are you so paranoid? You’re in Vegas. Go pound some fucking shots and stop calling me.”

 

The line clicks as Madison hangs up, a dial tone buzzing in her ear. She locks her phone and slides it back into her clutch.

 

She’s not worried, not really; Madison wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize the safety of those young witches or the coven. Once upon a time, definitely, but not now. Not after her return from hell. Not after the war, and not after this well-earned victory. Madison has made it clear that she views this as her second (third) chance at life, and Cordelia would like to support her in that. Madison is the one who set this conference up in the first place, using one of her relocated Hollywood contacts to leak their story of success, and Madison had actually done her own version of begging—which had mostly just been gentle bullying—so she could watch over Robichaux’s in the Council’s absence.

 

_“Why don’t you want to go to Vegas?” Cordelia asks, setting aside one of the new applicant’s forms she’d received for the upcoming term. Madison shrugs, noncommittal on the outside, maybe, but Cordelia can sense her intent, and she is surprised to learn that Madison’s devotion is actually coming from a healthy place. “I would have thought debauchery was precisely your style.”_

_“I’m sober this week,” Madison offers as her only explanation, and, well, progress of any kind is still progress, Cordelia supposes. “So, lucky you, I guess. No need to track down a babysitter.”_

_“I haven’t agreed to anything yet.”_

_“Well, who else is gonna do it?” Madison presses on, crossing her arms defensively, and she wants this in a way that Cordelia has not seen her want anything since the scramble for supremacy. Madison wants it enough to fight for it, and Madison is entirely correct. The rest of the Council is attending the conference, leaving behind no obvious chain of command; Myrtle has taken to booking her own vacation reservations, away from both Robichaux’s and Vegas. She wants even less to do with all of this than Misty, and Cordelia has no one else to rely on in her absence. Plus, Cordelia is proud of Madison for taking initiative and wanting to pull her weight. Cordelia’s not in the business of rebuking an opportunity for growth. As far as she is concerned, Madison has earned this._

 

“Still can’t believe you left her the key to your kingdom,” Queenie says with a light snort, leaning on the counter next to Cordelia. “You know she’s gonna fuck it up, right?”

 

“I trust her,” Cordelia says reassuringly, but Queenie appears to remain unconvinced. “Why shouldn’t she get the chance to exercise some authority just as everyone else has?”

 

Queenie squints her eyes in confusion, as if Cordelia hasn’t met Madison and doesn’t know of her… _abrasive_ tendencies. But Cordelia does know. She knows her very well, and she also knows that trust begins with blind faith. Plus, Madison helped them save the world. She doesn’t deserve to have her redemption rejected over Cordelia’s personal folly, not when Madison is really, truly trying.

 

“I’m just saying,” Queenie says, raising her hands in surrender, “don’t look at me when we get back and the whole house is on fire.”

 

“I appreciate the faith you have in me and my decision-making skills,” Cordelia says flatly, then, “Where are the others?”

 

Queenie scoffs, shakes her head in disapproval. “Probably still at the casino, gambling their dumb asses into debt,” she tells Cordelia, and what a visual: four witches crowded around a blackjack table, feeling out the tactics and strategies of the game. Ethically, none of them should be allowed to participate. They could cheat and bend every rule in the book to their own persuasion, could drain the place dry and walk out with their pockets and wallets overflowing like molten lava from a cliffside volcano. But who is she to be the big, wet blanket, stifling all their fun? The conference ended an hour ago, and it had been the only thing on their agenda. They’re all free to do whatever they please, and Cordelia just wants to see Misty.

 

“You’re not joining them?” Cordelia asks, her lips twitching into a grin, and the look that Queenie shoots her way tells her that no, she’s not. Queenie has always been good with organization and management, and Cordelia believes that mentality applies to her finances as well. “I’m gonna go find them, okay?”

 

“Cool.” Queenie nods and gestures to the bar. “I’m gonna get drunk as shit.”

 

And, fair. It had taken two months to schedule and prepare for this conference, and during those two months, they have all been doing their own reparations, attempting to find balance and normalcy after Michael took it all away from them, and after Misty gave it all back. This is a vacation of sorts for them, and she doesn’t want to be remembered as the Supreme who always put too much pressure on her girls, who never allowed them a chance to breathe now and then.

 

She makes her way through vast hallways, sharp heels clicking against the polished, marble floor with each step. It’s a swanky place, the Bellagio. Cathedral ceilings and extravagant staircases with golden accents, the colorful floral sculpture in the lobby comprised of broken glass. Fractals of recessed lighting peek through and reflect, and everything about this place is overkill, excessive, but it’s beautiful. The immaculate architecture, the fountains and paintings, the chic furniture.

 

Robichaux’s is illuminating in a different way, less blatant and more intricate. More southern antique than modern renaissance. Robichaux’s possesses a certain beauty that one must have an eye for to truly appreciate. It feels strange to be away, even for as little as one day, but the conference had been a rejuvenating experience. Everyone was incredibly accommodating, and it’s had such a positive impact on Cordelia, seeing the mass of receptive faces, young and old, listening to her speak about all the work her coven has done in such a professional setting that goes beyond a simple television interview, being applauded for it instead of being tied to a stake.

 

There had been a panel towards the end, and Misty had refused prior to their arrival here to speak on anything, that she had nothing to say about Michael and all his treachery, that she wouldn’t give him a voice, but people were eager to hear the story of a hero, and when it came right down to it, Misty couldn’t deny them that. Misty had been so nervous and jittery beforehand, hating the idea of attention and hating the idea of being depicted as some sort of modern god even more. But she had handled it wonderfully, openly, and with such inspiring humility.

 

It’s a new world, one for which their ancestors paved the way, and she is infinitely grateful for all of the sacrifices their kind has made. Witches have never been accepted, always treated as something non-human just because they possess the ability to reach into the ethereal plane and manipulate the world around them. Fiona abused this. Fiona took everything for granted, sucked every morsel of life from this coven and turned all of them against one another for her benefit. Fiona could have done what Cordelia has done. She could have opened their world to the public, could have done it with grace and kindness and love. Instead, Fiona chose self-preservation. And she perished for it.

 

She finds the casino with ease, passes through the thick drapery hung above the archway and brushes by people in lavish suits and gowns cradling cocktails in their hands.

 

Cordelia takes stock of the expansive room, searching for Zoe or Mallory or Coco, but mostly for Misty. Always for Misty. There are people crowded around every square inch, at craps tables, celebrating their roulette winnings, glued to slot machines. Tinny beeping sounds and dice clattering against felt, the occasional cheer of celebration when more money is added to a steadily growing pile. Her attention is drawn to a small mass of people who clap and cheer with exuberance, and when they shift from left to right, she catches a glimpse of a soft, yellow dress, floral in pattern and short in length. Blonde locks tumbling elegantly down her back. Chips knocking against ring-adorned fingers as she slides a stack across the table in front of her.

 

Cordelia smiles to herself. She has found Misty, at least.

 

The closer she gets, the louder the volume, and other faces come into view as she sidles up to the crowd of ten or twelve people, shoulders her way in. Zoe is standing beside Misty, and Misty appears to be debating her next move because there is a tension in the air. Mallory is a few people over, watching with excitement on her face, and Coco is next to her, draining the remnants of a martini glass. There is a sudden uproar in the group then, everyone all around them causing a commotion at Misty’s apparent good fortune. She watches Misty knock back a celebratory shot and Zoe is nearly doubled over with amusement. The excitement settles down, Misty’s audience thinning out, and Cordelia steps closer, wrapping an arm around Misty’s waist from behind and leaning her head on Misty’s shoulder.

 

“Gambling problem?” she teases, lips at Misty’s ear, and Misty melts into her, one of her hands coming to her stomach to rest on the arm Cordelia has around her.

 

“I just turned two hundred bucks into four thousand,” Misty tells her proudly. “Sounds like the opposite of a problem to me. Sounds like _real_ magic.” She turns in Cordelia’s embrace, her hands going to cup Cordelia’s face as she kisses her, heady and languid, in the middle of a casino, and Cordelia’s breathy laughter is muffled against Misty’s mouth. When she pulls away, Misty is beaming at her, gaze soft and warm.

 

“Where did you learn how to play poker?” Cordelia asks, running a hand through Misty’s hair, down to the ends.

 

“In church,” Misty says wryly, and there is irony somewhere here, a joke to be made, but Cordelia lets it lie, and Misty sags in her hold, sighing away her distress that she has absorbed and compiled throughout the day. “This shit’s too formal, Cordelia. Did you know there’s a hot tub in our bathroom?”

 

Cordelia just laughs lightly and nods.

 

“I made the reservations.”

 

Misty grins then, widely and freely, and Cordelia feels herself melting. “Yeah, you did. When’s the last time you took a break? From all the work? When’s the last time you really got out of that damn house?”

 

Cordelia shrugs her shoulders, tensing them, and heaves a sigh as she slumps.

 

“I can’t remember,” she says, and Misty presses her lips to Cordelia’s in a gentle peck, then to Cordelia’s cheek.

 

“So, can we fix that tonight? Can we just relax and go upstairs to our _fancy penthouse suite_ and get some use out of that _hot tub_?”

 

Cordelia hums thoughtfully, would like to deny that she needs a break because that would imply that she isn’t as content with the supremacy as she should be. She is content; she loves it, and she loves protecting and helping others. But there are things outside of the coven. There is an entire world outside of Robichaux’s, and they are in it right now, and they should be free to experience it.

 

 

 

 

 

_10 P.M._

The jets whir on all sides of them, submerged in the heat of the water, and Cordelia relaxes further into Misty, her back pressed to Misty’s front. The steam rises and settles around the room like a veil of fog, and Cordelia closes her eyes, draws Misty’s arms around her waist and holds them there.

 

“See?” Misty says, lips at her ear. “It’s not so bad, breathing every now and then.”

 

“It’s awful,” Cordelia argues. “I should be packing for the flight home tomorrow, and making sure the girls are squared away and that they haven’t lost their tickets, and double-checking our departure time, and I should text Madison to see if she needs anything.”

 

“Jesus, Cordelia.” Misty’s laughter rumbles through her, and she feels Misty’s hands stroke over the soft skin of her stomach, easing the tension from her muscles as she presses a kiss to the side of Cordelia’s neck. “You’re wound tight enough to snap.” Cordelia breathes a soft chuckle, lets her head lull back onto Misty’s shoulder, feels Misty drop another kiss to her neck, closer to her jaw. “Maybe you just can’t relax on your own. Maybe,” Misty says lowly, her hands sliding down Cordelia’s abdomen, then at her hips, “you could use a hand.”

 

Cordelia arches up slightly into Misty’s touch, opens her eyes and turns her head to the side to meet Misty’s dark, mirthful gaze. She brings a hand around to the back of Misty’s head and pulls Misty’s face to hers, crushes her lips to Misty’s with a soft exhale through her nose. Misty’s hands rise higher, skimming over Cordelia’s sides, her fingertips dancing along Cordelia’s ribs. When Cordelia sweeps her tongue out and teases the seam of Misty’s lips, she feels Misty’s fingers press more firmly into her skin. Cordelia feels Misty’s thighs tighten around her hips, holding her to her, and she is overly aware of Misty’s center pressed to her from behind, of Misty’s bare breasts against her back.

 

The muscles in her neck begin to strain, and her lungs start to burn, so she pulls away. Their breaths come in soft pants, Misty’s mouth still hovering so closely over Cordelia’s.

 

“Maybe,” Cordelia agrees in a voice that is one notch above a whisper.

 

“Yeah?” Misty asks impishly, and Cordelia sighs, nods, taking Misty’s hands and moving them up to her chest.

 

“Yes,” she breathes.

 

Misty’s skin feels like warm silk in the water as her palms knead Cordelia’s breasts, delicate but purposeful enough for Cordelia to toss her head back against Misty’s shoulder, arc her body up into the touch. Misty grazes the tips of her fingers over Cordelia’s nipples, rubs in small sweeping circles. Cordelia’s hands fall to Misty’s thighs, gripping them and digging her nails into the flesh as Misty tweaks her nipples.

 

She sighs Misty’s name impatiently, and Misty hums quietly into her neck, takes the skin there between her lips and sucks gently, then with more intensity as she trails her hands back down over Cordelia’s stomach. Misty keeps one hand there, keeps Cordelia’s hips from bucking suddenly, and brings the other lower, running her fingers along the inside of Cordelia’s thigh. She moves up to soft, sensitive flesh, laves her tongue over Cordelia’s pulse point when she parts her with her fingers. Cordelia emits a quiet gasp that works itself into a moan, two of Misty’s fingers swiping along either side of Cordelia’s clit, keeping them away from where Cordelia directly needs them until Cordelia lifts her hips against Misty’s hand, Misty’s fingers bumping against her.

 

 _Do what you promised_ , Cordelia is desperate to say. _Make me forget_.

 

She doesn’t need to beg because Misty’s fingers land on her clit and press, rolling out a slow, steady motion, a pace that Cordelia quickly begins to wish Misty would increase just slightly, just enough. Her hips grind in time with Misty’s fingers, and Misty returns her other hand to Cordelia’s breast. Cordelia bites her lip through a guttural groan, feels Misty’s fingers leave her clit and dip lower, teasing but never committing, never sinking into her, then resuming their earlier movements. Misty adds pressure and an essence of speed, working small, tight circles as the muscles in Misty’s forearm tense and ripple, and every other breath that escapes Cordelia falls into a broken whimper. She feels her own muscles begin to clench, feels her thighs twitch and tremble. Misty takes Cordelia’s nipple between her thumb and forefinger and rolls, drags her teeth over Cordelia’s earlobe and bites down, and Cordelia goes blessedly numb to everything but the seeping pleasure that breaks through her all at once. She shudders, her hips locking as she is swallowed whole by these blissful waves. And for several lingering moments, she does forget, about everything except for Misty.

 

 

 

 

 

_11 P.M._

Their kitchen had come fully stocked, and Misty has insisted on making pancakes, despite the lateness of the hour. Cordelia makes mimosas with the complimentary champagne she finds in the fridge, passes a flute of it to Misty, and Misty smiles graciously as she flips a pancake on the skillet.

 

“How do you get them so perfect?” Cordelia asks teasingly, leaning on the countertop beside Misty, next to the stove. She admires the state of the pancakes, the smooth, rounded tops and the thick, fluffy middles.

 

“I know,” Misty sighs theatrically as if she is burdened by her talent. “It’s a gift.” She eyes Cordelia jovially and takes a sip of her glass as Cordelia nudges her lightly in the side with her elbow. Misty plates two pancakes, and Cordelia reaches for it. “No, those are mine, I kinda burnt the bottoms. Go sit down, I’ll bring yours to you.”

 

Cordelia sulks but obeys. She walks over to the island bar behind them and pulls out two barstools, settles down into one. Her robe rides up at her thighs, and the cold metal of the chair against her legs makes her shiver. She draws her robe around her more tightly while she waits for Misty to complete her masterpiece. She manages to drain half of her mimosa before Misty finally carries two loaded, porcelain plates over to the island bar, sets them down and slowly slides one over to Cordelia.

 

“Here are your pancakes,” Misty says as Cordelia picks up her fork, and then just as casually, “will you marry me?”

 

Cordelia glances up, blinks once, and Misty’s face reveals nothing. Misty remains impassive, as if she did not just propose over late night pancakes and mimosas. As if they are not in a penthouse suite in the heart of Las Vegas, the city where these things can become reality at the mere snap of fingers.

 

“What?” Cordelia croaks, eyes wide.

 

“I said, here are your pancakes.” Misty comes over to sit beside Cordelia, perching on her stool and cutting into her own pancakes, shoveling a bite into her mouth.

 

“Misty.”

 

“Hm?” Misty’s response is muffled by food, and when she looks at Cordelia, there is an entire world of emotion that manifests in her eyes, a stark contrast to the typical pale-blue calm. Misty had been serious, Cordelia thinks, and the realization crashes into her like a speeding car as she chokes out an incredulous laugh. Cordelia reaches out and uses her thumb to clean the drop of syrup from Misty’s lip.

 

“What…” Cordelia’s voice comes out raw, so she clears her throat, “what did you ask me?” she urges, and Misty swallows down her food with an audible gulp.

 

“Don’t make me say it again.” Misty sets her fork down, lets it rest on the edge of her plate, and silently begs for mercy. “I thought I was gonna have a heart attack.”

 

“Well, it’s not fair. I wasn’t ready,” Cordelia complains, scoots closer to the edge of her seat to lean in. She rests her elbow on the table and props her head in her hand, watching Misty with rapt adoration. “Ask me.”

 

Misty draws a long inhale, then lets it all out, and Cordelia thrums with anticipation.

 

“Will you marry me?” she asks, sincere this time, and Cordelia softens, the thrill of a smile playing at her lips.

 

She lets the silence linger, lets it stretch on and on until it’s unbearable, until Misty is overwhelmed and riddled with anxiety. She deserves it for catching Cordelia off guard, for always surprising her, and Cordelia loves it; it is her favorite thing about Misty, her enigmatic charm. Misty doesn’t have a shred of reservation about her right now. Misty has dealt all of her cards, has splayed out her entire deck before Cordelia, and it is endearing to see her so disarmed.

 

“I love you,” Cordelia finally says, because it is the only thing she can think to say, the only thing that will not leave her mind, and Misty titters.

 

“I love you, too,” Misty says, and Cordelia’s smile is a splitting grin now, and she feels enamored tears blur her vision. “That’s why I asked you to marry me. Twice.”

 

“Okay,” she says in a rush, holding her breath as her heart pounds heavily in the confines of her chest.

 

 “Okay, what?”

 

“I want to,” Cordelia tells her with an exuberant nodding of her head, placing her hands on Misty’s face, in her hair, then taking Misty’s hands and squeezing them tightly in her own. “I want to marry you.” She brings their joined hands up to her lips, presses a kiss to Misty’s knuckles and fights to stay grounded so as not to turn into a giddy, weeping mess on the floor. Misty melts, the storm clearing from her eyes as they begin to fill with a different emotion, one that speaks more of love than nerves. Misty smiles tearfully and lifts her shoulders in a timid shrug.

 

“Really?” she asks quietly, and Cordelia releases a sob of laughter.

 

“ _Yes_ ,” Cordelia affirms in a whisper, and repeats the word over and over until she pulls Misty to her by the front of her nightgown, into an all-consuming kiss that tastes like salty tears and sticky syrup.

 

She will marry Misty here, or at home, or in the rain, or on a beach, or in the desert, or in an alley behind a dumpster. She will marry her tonight, or tomorrow, or next month, or next year, or in ten years, because she  _loves_ her _so_ much. Cordelia has been here before, or at least, she has been somewhere close to it. She got lost somewhere in that grey area between marriage and betrayal, and it had been an easy trap to fall into. It had been a trap in which she’d enclosed herself from the very start, marrying out of spite rather than love. Marrying for the sake of normalcy and commonality. Not only was her late ex-husband unfaithful and deceptive, a weak excuse for a partner, but he had tried to single-handedly obliterate her life’s work. He tried to murder all of them, all of her girls, the dwindling few of them that, as it were, Fiona had already sunken her venomous teeth into and corrupted, and he was very nearly successful in his endeavors. Probably would have killed her, too, if it meant climbing the ladder of self-worth.

 

Cordelia has been married before, legally bound but never emotionally so. Never in a way that held any sort of genuine connection, never any connection that wasn’t teeming with lies, and does it really count as a marriage if she regrets it far more than she’s ever missed it? No longer should she have to conform to the ideology that people are only put in her life to hurt her and make her a stronger person for it. She can trust that, sometimes, people exist to help and heal. If it took Hank showing his true colors to open her up to what love is supposed to be, then she can learn to be grateful for his foul idiocy. She gets to reap the benefits of his mistakes, gets to allow Misty to be where he never deserved to be, a safe, soft, resilient place in her heart that has never spoken as freely and openly as it does now.

 

She believes that if she and Misty had been granted a normal, peaceful existence, then they would have solidified this thing between them long before now. But life has not been very kind or forgiving, and they have had to fight for every moment. The most authentic liberation would be to finally start living a permanent truth.

 

 

 

 

 

_12 A.M._

“Hello?” Cordelia says into her phone, using her other hand to plug her ear and block out the background noises of the streets and sidewalks. “Myrtle? Is everything okay?”

 

“I was going to ask you the same.” Myrtle’s voice is all-knowing, too wise and far too amused, and Cordelia curls in on herself defensively. “I’ve just received an electronic bank statement, and I believe you may be a victim of identity theft.”

 

Well. Cordelia had forgotten about that, had forgotten that Myrtle gets e-mails every time she or another member of the Council uses the Robichaux’s business credit card—there had been an incident last month where Zoe accidentally ordered three hundred new tablets for her students when she had meant to order thirty. Myrtle had been appointed to monitor the credit card usage from now on, her keen eye for detail useful in preventing any potential fuck-ups. And Cordelia has just used the credit card to pay for her wedding.

 

“Oh,” Cordelia mumbles, then shakes her head, cannot, for the life of her, think of any excuse, and isn’t sure she even wants to.

 

“It’s strange,” Myrtle continues calmly. “The transaction comes from a wedding chapel, not too far from where you’re staying.”

 

Cordelia deflates, surrenders, and her heart begins to race. She bites her lip, tries to contain it all, tries to push it all down, and she fails.

 

“No one stole my identity, Myrtle,” she says. And then she laughs once, then harder, laughs until it is evolving into something deeper, hysterical, and she is shaking with it. Myrtle is right: it is strange. She and Misty got _married_ , got their marriage license from the bureau and came to this chapel and took vows. Real, honest vows. They said, “I do,” and they kissed, with no rings or lacy, beaded, elegant dresses. Just simple summer dresses and an abundance of love, and it had all been _so_ easy and so entirely theirs. It was not like this before, the last time she’d worn a ring on the proper finger. It was never so pure. It was never so selfless. Cordelia laughs at the absurdity and the perfection of it until she cries, until she is actually crying, her humor dissolving into hiccups, and she slumps down onto the rock wall outside of the chapel, sits and releases all of her demons, covers her face with her other hand and sobs into it.

 

“Oh, Delia. I have one question.” Myrtle’s gentle voice in her ear has her drawing in a stuffy, congested breath, has her wiping the tears from her cheeks. Myrtle’s tone lightens at her follow-up, an attempt to steer Cordelia out of the depths of her past. “How much have you had to drink?”

 

An unexpected laugh pushes from Cordelia’s lungs, and Myrtle laughs quietly with her, and Cordelia just smiles.

 

“I’ve never…felt—” _this happy_ , she thinks, but can’t even say the word for fear of chasing it off. “I don’t know what to do with it.”

 

“You don’t do anything with it, dear,” Myrtle advises. “Not every feeling is a weapon.”

 

Cordelia doesn’t tell Myrtle that she’s not sure how to navigate that. She doesn’t tell Myrtle that her heart feels light enough to float, and she’s all out of pain to weigh it down, and she’d grown so used to all of the heartache that it became a part of her, and now it’s not, and she should feel empty for it, but she is so completely full. She keeps these things to herself, because they are hers, and she doesn’t think they’re meant to be analyzed. She thinks, sometimes, just knowing an emotion is enough. It can be quiet, and it can still be powerful, maybe even more so. She will have to learn that this feeling, _happiness_ , isn’t a sword, but rather a sheath that protects the sword inside.

 

She hears the doors open behind her, hears the overhead bell chime, and she stands.

 

“Myrtle, I have to go,” she says.

 

“Congratulations. Give Misty my best,” Myrtle tells her, and before she has time to ask where, in the world, Myrtle has decided to vacation, the line cuts.

 

“Well, we got this dumb, fake champagne as part of our package. There’s no alcohol in it, so we just…won’t,” Misty mutters, and when she lifts her gaze from the bottle in her hand, when she meets Cordelia’s, she frowns, and concern overwhelms her features. “Hey, are you okay? What’s wrong?”

 

Cordelia’s answer comes in the form of a kiss, pulling Misty to her, hands on her face. She had been wrong; she is happiest now, being held around the waist by Misty outside of a wedding chapel with a heavy bottle of nonalcoholic champagne pressing into her back, their lips meeting with a slow sort of desperation, clinging to each other without haste or hollow aches. Cordelia would love to continue to be proved wrong on this one matter in particular. She would love to continue to be surprised by her newfound threshold for happiness. She hopes she never gets used to it, because she wants to feel this every time, wants to feel it this strongly forever.

 

 _Nothing_ , Cordelia thinks when she pulls away and lovingly tucks hair behind Misty’s ear. _Nothing is wrong, and that is, finally, the whole point_.

 

“I can call you my wife now,” Cordelia says, and Misty grins. “I can tell people that you’re my wife.”

 

“Well, legally, you kinda have to.” Misty loops her arm around Cordelia’s and leads them down the street, heading back to their hotel.

 

They walk slowly, bumping against each other, leaning into the weight of the other. In New Orleans, they have Mardi Gras. Once a year, a blowout, and here, it seems naturally alive in that same way, perhaps all the time. There are neon signs at every window, indicating whether or not the shop is open. There are randomly scattered street performers with guitars or in costumes. Advertisements flashing on billboards, cars stuck in traffic on the road, palm trees lining the medians, buildings towering all around them. It’s gimmicky in a way that New Orleans isn’t, and it is buzzing with its own wonder among all the clichés. Here, they are not witches. They are, but they are not only. Cordelia thinks the magic here is potentially stronger than that of home, simply because there is no magic here at all. Simply because they are the magic.

 

Misty stops in her tracks, and Cordelia nearly flies forward at the abruptness, follows Misty’s gaze over to the shop window they’re standing in front of, a window with a _closed_ sign, embellished with red LED lights that flash in different patterns. It’s a pet store, and there is a bundle of four kittens resting on a bed on the carpeted base of the glass enclosure, on display for adoption.

 

“Oh, they look so sad,” Misty laments, stepping closer to the window and taking Cordelia with her, and Cordelia isn’t sure if she sympathizes with these cats, or if she sympathizes with Misty’s sympathy for them.

 

“They’re sleeping,” Cordelia says by way of an answer, but it’s not good enough, and she sees on Misty’s face that she doesn’t accept it. She watches Misty bring her hand up to the glass, pressing her palm flat against it.

 

“They’re _lonely_ ,” she corrects, and Cordelia frowns. “You can’t hear them?” she asks with curiosity in her tone.

 

She can’t. Maybe if she listens closely enough, but even then, it’s unclear. Blurry at the edges. But Misty’s always better at this sort of thing. She can read souls like they’re books, written specifically for her. Misty can hear them, and Misty can feel them, and that is all that matters.

 

“Stealing is sort of like adopting, right?” Cordelia asks, and a look of confusion passes over Misty’s face. Before she can ask questions, Cordelia glances left and right, makes sure no passersby are watching, then gestures once with her hand. A smooth flick of her wrist, and the glass barrier vanishes. She leans in over into the shop, and she passes one kitten to Misty, then another, and takes the remaining two into her own arms. “We should go now,” she announces to Misty’s stunned form, and when Cordelia begins shuffling away down the street, Misty blinks once and hurries after her, erupting into a fit of laughter as one of the kittens wakes up and mewls softly.

 

“This is why they burn witches, Cordelia.”

 

 

 

 

 

_1 A.M._

Misty traces the tips of her fingers over the back of Cordelia’s hand, passes them over the ridges of her knuckles and then her palm, down to her wrist. It’s quiet in the darkness, and for once, the weight of the silence is not as heavy as their love. Four stolen kittens sleep here, curled up between them on the king bed in their suite. Misty grazes over Cordelia’s ring finger, and Cordelia flattens her palm to Misty’s and locks their fingers together.

 

“What about a ring?” Misty asks thoughtfully, seems as though she is pondering the question for herself as well.

 

Cordelia doesn’t want one, nor does she need one. A big, gaudy, diamond promise would take away from all of this somehow. It would overshadow the promise their souls have already made. It would be redundant. Useless. But Misty is allowed to feel differently, and if Misty would like one, then Cordelia will gladly abide.

 

“They’re pretty to look at,” Cordelia offers placatingly as her answer, and Misty nods, reaching the same end. “Do you want one?”

 

Misty’s laugh is soft, and she squeezes Cordelia’s hand once, all the rings on each of her fingers pressing to Cordelia’s skin.

 

“I think I have enough,” Misty tells her quietly, then her expression takes on a faraway quality, distant thought. She leans up then, props up on one elbow and looks down at Cordelia, eyes shining brightly. “Back before I understood any of this, I healed a crow with a broken wing. It was all…bent out of shape and twisted. He couldn’t fly. Just, hopped around and screamed and cried. Everybody else was afraid, bad omens and shit like that, so they wouldn’t go near him. They just let him suffer.” Misty sighs heavily, like the image from this memory is hard for her. “But I knew I could do things that other people couldn’t. I could hear things and feel things. So, I picked him up, and I fixed him.”

 

Cordelia listens, her heart full of gracious admiration for Misty and her soft soul. She has always been like this then, Cordelia thinks. She has always been good. Cordelia strokes her thumb soothingly over the back of Misty’s hand.

 

“What happened?” she asks in a whisper, and Misty’s smile is one of nostalgia.

 

“He could fly again.” Misty lifts her shoulder in a shrug. “He kept coming back, too. And he’d bring his friends sometimes. One of them brought me this.” Misty wiggles her forefinger, indicating the ring, the cut of a bright topaz stone. “Thanking me for saving their friend.”

 

Cordelia lets the silence linger, lets Misty’s story exist on its own without commentary, gives her the space to share this memory that is so close to her. Misty untangles their hands then, slips the ring off her finger. She picks up Cordelia’s left hand and holds it, sliding the piece of jewelry over Cordelia’s ring finger, just above her knuckle where it rests comfortably. Cordelia smiles, releases a breath of laughter to keep from crying.

 

“And you’ve kept it all this time?” she asks, and Misty nods, releases a self-deprecating chortle as she bows her head.

 

“I think that was when I really started to realize I could do something good. Whatever I could do, it was important, maybe not even for me but for others.” Misty taps the ring that Cordelia now wears. “This helped me with that.”

 

Cordelia doesn’t know if she can accept such a bestowment. She doesn’t know if she is worthy enough to don this one piece of jewelry that means so much to Misty, that tells a story no diamond from a jeweler could ever tell. But Misty doesn’t give her a choice, just reclines into her previous position with her head on the pillows. One of the kittens between them purrs softly in their sleep.

 

“What are we gonna name them?” Misty asks, and Cordelia sighs.

 

“Cats One Through Four,” Cordelia decides, and Misty laughs delightedly.

 

Stillness reigns once more, surrounds them. The air conditioning unit in their room drones on. The kitten’s purrs never quiet. Beside her, the rise and fall of Misty’s chest is slow, her breathing silent. Cordelia’s eyelids grow heavy, encompassed by so much peace.

 

“Cordelia.” Misty’s voice sneaks into her subconscious, and her eyes flutter open, gazing at Misty with a bleary sort of love, but a true one nonetheless. She hums her response, and Misty turns on her side to face her. “Is it bad that I’m a little scared?”

 

Memories of their haunted past creep into her mind, flooding her with fear and pain and loss all at once. Misty’s words can’t be valid, they can’t hold weight, because they are not supposed to be afraid anymore. That is why they are _here_ , that is how they _got_ to where here is, by overcoming all of their impossible obstacles and by drowning their fears in a sea of love. Drowsiness leaves Cordelia in a winded rush, something fierce replacing it.

 

“Tell me what you’re scared of,” Cordelia says, thinks, _so I can kill it._

“I don’t wanna go back.” Misty’s voice is careful and fragile, like she is ashamed. Like Cordelia is going to be angry with her, which, absurd. “What if it’s different,” Misty wonders, “when we leave? When we go home, what if…”

 

Cordelia realizes, a sharp pang in her heart, that what Misty is afraid of is _her_. She is afraid of losing this, and she is afraid that Cordelia is going to decide none of this has mattered, that it doesn’t count or that it will mean less beneath a different backdrop. It is easy to sink into the safety of routine, and it is easy to let it control every aspect. They haven’t had to conform to any sort of routine here, away from the academy. They’ve been themselves without all the reminders of loss that spill from the wallpaper and seep up through the floorboards. They’ve been who they would be without Robichaux’s. And Misty _prefers_ them this way.

 

“What if, what?” Cordelia presses, has to know how deeply this reaches so she knows how to heal it, taking pages from Misty’s own book.

 

Misty meets her eyes sadly, shakes her head, and the pillow beneath her rustles from the movement.

 

“What if you only love me here,” Misty says, “because you know you can have me here.”

 

It’s not spoken like a question. It’s a shattering concern, one that breaks Cordelia. Because it _is_ valid, and it _does_ hold weight, all of the things she had hoped against. It is relevant. Cordelia had shied away from Misty for so long, had taken her own feelings and snapped them in half, had ruined them before they could ruin her. She knew she could never have what she wanted. She knew it would never be what it is now, so that alone makes her wrong. That alone proves that their love is one that will always persevere. But the guilt takes its pound of flesh, and she can never amend the lost time between them. It’s gone, but they do have this now, and Cordelia is not sure how to compare those two things, their past and their present, an impossible scale. She doesn’t think it can be done. She thinks it is ambitious to even try.

 

“I love you everywhere, always,” Cordelia assures her softly, berates herself for the fact that Misty could consider believing otherwise. “That has never changed. That will never change.” Because of all the things Cordelia knows, she knows this above all else. She knows that this is entirely it for her, has known for a long time. Their genesis had been one of shortcomings and unfulfillment, and their resolution will be catharsis. They will breathe easily for the remainder of their existence, and no longer will they apologize for it.

 

Misty smiles then, distracting and elusive. “So, home isn’t home,” she gathers, and Cordelia’s lips quirk. “Home is wherever we are.”

 

Home is Misty’s smile when she is joyous or nervous. Home is the gleam in Misty’s eyes when she is lonely and in love. Home is Misty’s arms around her, Misty’s hand in her own, and home is the ring of topaz on her finger. These things don’t have a place. They aren’t localized or classified by structures or foundations. And yes, finally, they have built something beyond shelter. They have built life on ashes and dust, and it blooms, stretches higher and higher to the clouds each day.

 

Cordelia nods, rests her palm against Misty’s cheek, warm and solid and free.

 

“How does that sound?” she asks, and her heart flutters timidly for no reason, no reason at all, because it sounds good to her, and she knows Misty agrees, can tell by the contented grin that spreads across Misty’s face, lighting her up.

 

“Yeah, that sounds right,” Misty tells her, and her voice is quiet, delicate like it has to be or else the words will fall flat. “You know, I’ve loved you too,” she says, “forever.”

 

Cordelia feels herself startle at the word, wonders if this is even real, and if it is, then she wonders how. It’s been years in the blink of an eye and a full lifetime in two heartbeats. Painfully slow and yet so quick, so jarring, all at once. They’ve gotten this right, she thinks, and tonight, this trip, just a small blip in their expansive timeline, has made it all worth the trouble. She cannot even imagine how it will feel for the rest of their lives.

 

 

 

 

 

_9 A.M._

She wakes to a series of light patters against her cheek, and she stirs, stretching and opening her eyes to the sight of an orange tabby kitten using its tiny paw to bat her into consciousness. When Cordelia makes eye contact with it, the cat spooks excitedly, darting off the bed and running out of the bedroom, into the main living area of their suite. She pushes the covers off of her and rises, finds that none of the kittens is in their room, and instead, they are all very much awake and ready to play, softly tackling one another, swiping their feet at one another, in a heap on the floor by the dining table.

 

Misty snores lightly from behind her, and Cordelia smiles, closes the bedroom door and lets the cats roam and frolic freely on the other side of it. She crosses the distance back over to the bed, settles on Misty’s lap and says her name until Misty frowns in her sleep, and then not in her sleep. Misty squints at her in the early morning light, and the smile she offers Cordelia rivals the beam of the sunlight creeping in through the drapes. Misty passes an arm over the space beside her, as if to say, _where are our children?_

 

“Early risers,” Cordelia explains, brushing messy strands of hair from Misty’s face. “They got bored in here, I guess.”

 

“Doesn’t seem possible,” Misty counters groggily, her voice heavy with sleep, hands dropping to Cordelia’s waist. “I never get bored when you’re in bed with me.”

 

She bites her lip and stifles her grin, feels a blush spread to her face.

 

“How do you feel this morning?” Cordelia asks, letting her hand slide down over Misty’s cheek, landing on her neck and stroking her thumb over Misty’s jawline. “Still okay?”

 

“More than,” Misty tells her, fingers moving in lazy patters over Cordelia’s hips, then her eyes glint jovially. “Why? Divorce on your mind?”

 

“Hardly,” she teases; divorcing Misty from her clothes, maybe, and that is the full extent of it. She is not letting go. She’s made her promise even before this, and she thinks this was Misty’s way of keeping that promise solid.

 

“I think we might’ve made one huge mistake,” Misty says, and Cordelia hums lowly.

 

“What’s that?”

 

“Well,” Misty sighs dreamily, then she shrugs her feigned innocence, eyes Cordelia suggestively, “and, I mean, I’m no expert, but aren’t you supposed to  _consummate_ a marriage?”

 

Cordelia doesn’t answer, is too impatient for words, so she leans down slowly, captures Misty’s lips and runs her hands through Misty’s tangled hair. Her ring gets stuck on one of the strands, and when Misty grunts at the tug of it, Cordelia laughs her apology softly into her mouth. Misty seems entirely unbothered though, moves her hands from Cordelia’s waist to the curve of her ass, kneads her palms roughly and shifts Cordelia’s weight more heavily atop her. The movement knocks Cordelia off-balance, and she slams a hand into the pillow beside Misty’s head to catch herself, to keep herself up. Misty’s hands creep down to the backs of Cordelia’s thighs, pushing at the hem of her silk robe and pressing her fingers into bare skin. Cordelia forces her hips down once, an agonizingly slow grind, then adjusts to straddle Misty’s thigh, situating her own between Misty’s legs. She takes her time building rhythm, has Misty arching up against her until they are moving together.

 

She tears herself away from Misty’s lips to breathe in shallow spurts, lets Misty breathe, too. Cordelia focuses then on Misty’s neck, drops heated kisses to the skin there, curls her tongue along her jaw, up to her ear, moves to Misty’s pulse and scrapes her teeth at soft flesh, pulling a light moan from the back of Misty’s throat.

 

Cordelia trails her hand down, untangling it from Misty’s hair and using her other one to keep her steady, pressing into the pillow. She drags her fingers over the thin cotton of Misty’s nightgown, lightly over her chest, her stomach, then reaches the bottom and sneaks a hand beneath it. Cordelia’s fingertips skirt across Misty’s inner thigh, the juncture that connects it to her hip, skimming the band of her panties.

 

“Cordelia,” she begs in a whimper, and Cordelia smiles into her shoulder, slides her hand over and presses her fingers to Misty through the fabric barrier. Misty jolts at the contact, tilts her hips up and whines. She glides her fingers over warm, wet heat, exhales in a rush when she feels the proof of Misty’s desire.

 

There is a loud banging on the door of their suite that startles them both into stilled shock. Distant and muffled, it is Coco’s voice that rings out, calling their names, and Cordelia glances at Misty, who shakes her head.

 

“She’ll go away,” Misty whispers, and Cordelia breathes out a laugh, not entirely convinced that she will, but not wanting to sever herself from Misty’s warmth. The knocking stops, and Misty sighs her relief. “See, it’s fine. It’s fine.”

 

She pulls Cordelia to her in a desperate kiss, all heat and fire and tongue, and Cordelia dips her fingers below Misty’s waistband, drags the tips of them—

 

Her phone buzzes on the nightstand, then begins to chime its ringtone. The screen reads _Coco_ , and Misty curses and grumbles.

 

“What does she _want_ ,” she complains, and Cordelia huffs a defeated breath, extracts her hand and rolls off of Misty. “Check-out’s not ‘til noon.”

 

Cordelia wipes her fingers off on her robe on the way to the door, and Misty follows behind her, cooing when she finds the kittens in the main room. She sighs as she turns the handle to the heavy door of their suite, swings it open and is met with the sight of a very perturbed Coco.

 

“Oh, good morning, _ladies_ ,” she says, almost scathingly, arms crossed and eyes narrowed in suspicion, and Cordelia blinks.

 

“Good morning,” Cordelia says kindly, offering a warm smile, but Coco scoffs.

 

“I may be _extremely_ hungover, but I’m not stupid,” she tells Cordelia, then her face falls as she sighs, her offense fading and turning desolate. “Why didn’t you invite me to your wedding?”

 

Cordelia gapes, turns to Misty for help, but Misty just stands there, cradles a kitten in her arms, looking equally as taken aback.

 

“I…we’re sorry, Coco, it was—it was sort of a last-minute thing,” Cordelia tries. “I guess I didn’t think about it.”

 

“Did you tell anyone else?” Misty asks curiously, and Coco shoots her a look.

 

“I’m not _Madison_ ,” Coco mumbles.

 

Coco seems severely affected by this, like they have truly hurt her feelings, and it is justified, Cordelia thinks. Coco has been rooting for them from the beginning. Coco probably would have loved to be there. Coco probably would have cried. Cordelia folds in on herself sheepishly, and the thick awkwardness surrounding them only intensifies. Until Misty cuts through it.

 

“Then you can tell them,” she suggests brightly, and Cordelia glares at her with wide-eyes, but Misty continues. “That way you’ll still be a part of it. How’s that?”

 

Coco’s eyes gleam, Misty’s words chasing away all of her dejection, and Coco nods, looks like she might still cry tears of joy even now, even if she had not been there to see their wedding.

 

“How did you even know?” Cordelia questions, and Coco rolls her eyes, but this time, her annoyance is directed at herself.

 

“I don’t know. When I woke up, I could sense something different, so I followed it, and then when you opened the door, I saw your ring, so, I just did the math.”

 

“Easy math,” Misty snickers, and Coco seems to finally notice their plethora of cats.

 

“Did you guys adopt a litter of kittens, too?” she asks, astonished.

 

“Cordelia stole them.”

 

Cordelia glares at Misty again, but Misty just beams at her, and she turns back to Coco.

 

“Coco, could you just maybe wait until we get home to say anything? Just give us all a minute to decompress after the flight back?” Cordelia asks, and Coco seems more than content to agree, is thrilled just to be included. She tells her how happy she is for both of them before she leaves, and Cordelia shuts the door back, slumps against it.

 

“I can’t believe you,” she tells Misty light-heartedly, and Misty smirks, puts the cat back down on the floor and crosses the distance between them.

 

“You’re the one who just  _had_ to open the door,” she says, snakes her arms around Cordelia’s waist.

 

“What if it had been an emergency?”

 

“ _I_ have an emergency.” When Misty kisses her softly, Cordelia can’t help but to smile against her lips. She feels this thing again, the happiness, and it lodges deep in her heart, fills her to the brim with love. Misty ducks her head, presses her lips to Cordelia’s cheek. “And we have this room for three more hours.”

 

She wraps her arms around Misty’s neck, pulling Misty back to her soundly, crushing her lips to hers, and yes, they do. They do have this room for three more hours. But they have forever now, too, and Cordelia thinks that not even that, not even an eternity with Misty, would be enough.

**Author's Note:**

> thank u for reading ily all sm


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